DANTICUS STORMWELL

The King's Encampment, Northern Jorden

It is the fourth day of Springs End, a thousand years after the fall of the Elven race and the dawn of the Age of Man.

WITH THREE STRONG FINGERS and one calculated breath, Danticus Stormwell took aim and drew the string of his bow.

Throughout his muscle, he felt the power and force that would send his arrow flying into his target. The training yard around him was uncharacteristically quiet, but Danticus attributed that to the early hour. The sun was nothing more than a small golden disc peeking from behind the hills far off in the horizon, bringing with its slow ascent warm winds that blew through tall trees of pine and cedar. The king's forces would be up and patrolling in full force soon enough, and he would lose his precious silence. Only he and the watchtower guardsmen knew the fresh air of the morrow. He'd soon be walking the ramparts himself before the end of the hour, and wouldn't be done until the sun reached its zenith.

The fort that the King chose to headquarter his forces was old and treacherous. The wooden railings were rough and conniving, and often left careless fingers embedded with splinters. Loose stones fell beneath the weight of an armored foot. Just two days ago, a young soldier died of a blow to the head from a falling rock. He drank himself to a slumber on his shift, and when word of his death reached Sergeant Portwood, the deputy commander of the garrison, the old warrior thanked the fort for weeding out the weak and lazy. For these reasons and more, Danticus was careful to patrol the upper walkways. Guardsmen were always the first to go in a raid, as the men liked to say.

Danticus took a breath. Focus. Guard duty would come later. Now was the only time he would have today to practice with his bow. He squinted one of his emerald colored eyes and aimed with the other. He let his breath out slowly, and once he was just shy of reaching the bottom of his breath, he let the arrow fly. Had he aimed a bit further to the left, it would have pierced the heart of the man made of straw. Had the wind not blown so hard, he might have pierced the heart of the man made of straw. Had he the patience to wait for the true bottom of his exhale, he might have pierced the heart of the man made of straw.

And had he taken these things into consideration, he might have been a better archer for it. But alas, he didn't, and instead, he was a worse archer for it. He shook his head, and threw his bow in a fit of frustration.

"What's got you so cross?" He heard a familiar voice from behind him say. "That was a decent shot." His cousin Cristomir was standing at the edge of the training yard leaning against the fence post, eating an apple with a smirk plastered on his face. He sported a crop of fine brown hair and wore his steel and leathers beneath a crimson mantle. He always seemed to be the perfect image of a warrior, but that could be said of any man dubbed a ranger. They were an arrogant lot, but that arrogance certainly didn't go unearned. Cristomir swallowed the bite of fruity mush and gave Danticus a cocky smile.

Danticus shook his head. "A decent shot for a newly made archer, likely."

"But not for you?" Cristomir wagered a guess.

Danticus sighed. "No...not for me."

Cristomir threw away the apple carcass, and it skittered across the dirt. "Good. Rangers don't shoot like that. Rangers always aim for the heart, and they never miss." He often said things like that. He changed when he earned the mantle, and while at times, the change seemed for the better, Danticus often wondered if it were for the worse. Nothing ever seemed to be enough, and maybe that was a good thing. Then again, maybe not.

Cristomir went closer to the man made of straw and examined the placement of the arrow. "So close, and yet so far. Old Uncle Mason would have made that shot with one eye closed, and he's missing an eye."

Danticus rolled his eyes. Both of them, actually. There was something Old Uncle Mason couldn't do. "Ah, to the Abyss with you, I was close enough. A shot like that could kill a man,"

Cristomir discarded his protest with a wave of his hand. "I suppose it could...but wouldn't you rather be sure? I've survived far worse than that." His fingers met the scar on his leg where a meddlesome arrow struck him years ago. "Better your aim and try not to think too much. You'll thank me for it." He picked the bow up from the dirt and placed it back in Danticus' hand. "Try again."

Danticus offered up the bow sarcastically and scoffed. "Care to show me how?"

Cristomir declined the gesture. "I prefer a blade in my hand, like any true warrior."

Danticus snickered. Cocksure ass.

Danticus took another look at his bow, a near perfect curvature of yew joined at the tips by a string of hemp. "And the bow is the weapon of a smart man. Why let them get up close? Pick 'em off from a distance." Taking his cousin's advice into consideration, Danticus notched another arrow without thinking and let it fly. It dug its way into the outer ring of the bullseye target next to the dummy.

Gods damn it...

Cristomir whistled. "And you wish to call yourself a ranger."

"Stow it, the wind is gusty this morning."

Cristomir smirked. "The wind wouldn't stop a ranger, though it was a better shot than your last, I'll give you that. Had you been aiming for that target, of course."

Danticus ignored the jape, and notched another arrow. He took his time aiming, made sure the sight was perfectly within his picture, and forced out his exhale. He released the arrow, but this time, it went a little too far to the right. He clenched his teeth and let a crashing wave of frustration flow throw him.

Danticus could hear Cristomir tsk-tsk from behind him. "They'll be sure to make a ranger out of you any day now, I'm certain of it."

Danticus glowered and turned to face him. "And when do you think that day will be? Have I not done enough? Gallador says the day will be soon, but it seems the day never comes."

Cristomir chewed on the thought for a second, and combed through his chestnut hair with his thick fingers. "I'm sure Lord Commander Thornshield has his reasons. Be patient, Danny. No one dons the crimson simply because they want it, it's something you earn. You're a fine warrior, but you are young, Danticus."

"As young as most recruits," Danticus said sourly.

"I was merely a year older than you when I was inducted, and your father, older still. Be patient. Your time will come."

The memory of his father always felt like a scab on the cusp of healing but would never truly heal, but this was likely because he kept picking at it. He didn't want to think of his father at the moment. There would be time enough for that later. There always was.

A playful expression flashed across Cristomir's face. "Remind me again, what are the words of the Order of Archery?"

Danticus muttered out the answer. "Our hands are steady, and our aim is true."

Cristomir nodded proudly. "Exactly. Aim with more than your eyes. Aim with your heart. Remember why you hold the bow, and the arrow will fly on it's own."

Danticus could nearly taste the sarcasm in which he coated his words on his tongue. He shook his head. "What a load of horse shit."

Cristomir broke out in a grin. "I thought it might inspire you."

"It inspires me to aim this bow at you instead of the straw man."

Cristomir whistled and smiled. "Careful now, Danny. Jenabelle certainly wouldn't take the news well."

To Danticus, it seemed like yesterday that he, Cristomir, and Jenabelle were just children, running around Thornshield Manor in the summers, not a care in the world other than being found in a game of hide and seek, suffering a bruise from falling out of the apple trees or mending a scratch from the titular thorn bushes that gave the manor its name. Roses, for as beautiful as they were, were just as prickly as any arrow. There was a valuable lesson Gallador taught him years ago.

"And how is Jenna? Surely she misses that charming tongue of yours," Danticus asked.

Cristomir smiled, mostly to himself. "Oh she does, and in more ways you can imagine, dear cousin."

Danticus should have known better than to set him up as he did. As chivalrous as Cristomir could be, he was still a ranger, and as crass and lewd as the rest of them.

"Don't let Gallador hear you say such things, or I'm sure that mantle of yours won't be the only crimson you'd wear."

Cristomir refused to let his smile wane. "Things with Jenna are better than ever. Our marriage will be in the autumn, her favorite season."

There was always something about the autumn that made Jenabelle mistakable for a young girl. The colors change from green to gold, the cool winds and early sunsets. Autumn laid claim to some of Jorden's most celebrated festivals and holidays, and it truly seemed to be a season of magic. An apt choice of a wedding season, Danticus would say so himself.

Cristomir's look suddenly grew worrisome. "She wrote to me the other day. She's been ill as of late. She says she spends most of the sunrise hugged to her chamberpot."

That raised a question. "Is it an illness she's with? Or a child?" Danticus asked blatantly.

Cristomir laughed, somewhat nervously, and it was an unusual sound. Cristomir always seemed to be at ease with the world, as if this voyage upon the earth was only one of many. "Oh, wouldn't that be something...Gallador wouldn't approve of a bastard."

"You bed her before we came out here, didn't you?" Danticus asked with a devious smile.

Cristomir shook his head, and half smiled. "That's between me and Jenna. Your nose has no business there, cousin."

Danticus smirked. He was always so guarded about his personal life. "I'd rather keep my nose out of there, believe you me. Jenna will be fine." He felt for his quiver and notched another arrow. "She is Gallador's daughter, after all." He let the arrow fly and it pierced the heart of the man of straw.

"Lieutenant Stormwell," came a voice from across the training yard.

"Darius," Cirstomir said as he glanced over his shoulder. "The men are ready, I take it?"

Darius stopped only when their shoulders met. "Aye, ready, and at your command." He was a tall and slender man with the black skin of a Valdorian, with eyes as bright and blue as a morning sky. Danticus had met him a few times before, their most recent encounter only a few nights ago, when he and himself escorted a very drunk Cristomir to his barracks after a night of ale and dice. It was unseemly for an officer to be seen in such a state, Darius reprimanded him, but Cristomir only laughed. "How can I be expected to lead my men if I can't drink as much as them?"

But now Cristomir was sober, and as stoic as ever. "Well, let's not keep them waiting."

"Where is it you're going?" Danticus asked.

"A scout reported sightings of camps along the western flank. A couple of old campfires, hacked trees, rags, and what have you. We believe they belonged to the Oathbreaker's forces. We're leading a patrol to investigate."

The Oathbreaker. The name was a curse whispered in the wind. Every Jordein knew the story of the man they called the Oathbreaker. A king killer, a war monger, a vile serpent, an oath breaker. He was the man they were out here hunting. He was the man they were here to kill.

"Well, be careful out there," said Danticus. "A man like the Oathbreaker could be anywhere. I think I'd be quite sad if you were to die out there in those woods."

Cristomir smirked. "Don't you remember? Rangers never die." His eye met the arrow stuck in the heart of the straw man. He gave Danticus a wink. "Nice shot, Danny." He left without another word.

* * * * *

It was some time later that Danticus stood in a guard tower, overlooking a sea of skeletal trees beneath a bright blue sky. The forest before him was barren, dry and decrepit, scant of life in any one of its many forms. The Wolfswood, they called it, once one of the most fertile and rich holdings in all of Jorden, until the rogue Lord Lucard Casterlyn burned the place down in an act of defiance against the old King Varrus Freemane. What followed changed the Kingdom of Jorden, and in many ways, for both the better and worse. Whatever sort of place it may have been was far before Danticus' time. Now, it was only a place for thieves, deserters, and wolves.

Cristomir and his patrol left the encampment not too long ago, and he gave Danticus a wave as he trotted through, encased in leather and steel while his red ranger's mantle billowed beneath his plumed steel helm. Danticus watched them ride until they disappeared behind the crest of the hill, off to find the Oathbreaker, and bring him to justice. It would only be a matter of time until he was one of them. A ranger like his cousin, like Old Gallador, like his father.

There he was again, his father. He always appeared sooner or later. Sometimes, he'd visit Danticus' thoughts in the middle of a warm pleasant afternoon, when Danticus was in a fair mood. Other times, he'd storm his nightmares, waking the young corporal in a dark clammy sweat. He remembered the last day he saw his father, and the memory was as bittersweet as an orange just shy of ripening. He was clad in his ranger garb, mantle and all, standing proud and tall by the castle gates. Gallador was waiting on his horse nearby, keeping solemn watch over the family's farewell. That must be a hard thing, Danticus reckoned, knowing yourself to be the root of many somber farewells. Still, it was a small pain compared to knowing a farewell for what it truly was.

"It is my duty, Nora," Captain Frederic Stormwell had said on his last day on earth. "And it is a duty most sacred."

While such sentiment might inspire a ranger to raise a mug in pride, it did little to dry his wife's tears. "And if this duty takes you from us? What then, Frederic? What do we do, your wife and children, when you die?"

Frederic wiped away her tears, and smiled. "Haven't you heard, my love? Rangers never die."

He pulled Nora in for a deep and final kiss, took Danticus in his arms, and tousled Cristomir's hair. They watched him ride off into the sun then, Gallador next to him, discussing what, only they and the Gods above knew. He was returned to them four days later, wrapped tightly in that mantle he wore so proudly. Gallador spoke a kind word or two of how brave he fought, the weeping of his men, the vengeance carried out against he who dealt the killing blow, but none of it brought back his father.

It would only be a year later Danticus' mother died. The physician said it was a fever that took her, but Danticus knew better than that. His mother died the day his father left. She would never be the same. Her death was a slow process, taking bits of her day by day, until she was more of a ghost than a woman. They buried her next to his father, Cristomir told him. Danticus had never once visited their graves, and for that, a part of him lived in the shadow of guilt. One day...

Gallador came for them soon after. He owed his father a debt that could never be repaid, and in taking Danticus and Cristomir in, he hoped he could make good on at least some of that debt. It was a strange thing, Danticus remembered. To be plucked from the Iron Quarter, where the sailors and carpenters and soldiers made their home, and find himself living in the Golden District, where Gallador made his home. Thornshield Manor was a behemoth of a residence, as tall as it was wide (which was to say, quite tall, at four stories), with more rooms than anyone could ever fill, and a small army of servants, cooks, and gardeners. Only King Joras lived in higher luxury, within Castle Elderstone. Gallador showered them with gifts; custom fit tunics of silks and wool, fine crafted wooden swords to spar with, books from the other kingdoms, and an allowance that would make any merchant envious. Still, despite the fine food, fancy clothes, and deep pockets, Danticus would have traded it all just to hug his father just a little tighter that fateful day.

If he could only one day don the crimson himself. Maybe then, he'd be even just a little bit closer to him. Maybe then he could be a man his father would have been proud of.

"It gets lonely up here, doesn't it?" Darius emerged from behind him and offered him a skin of some sort of liquid. Danticus took it, and before he even brought it up to his lips, he could smell the strong alcoholic odor.

"Thank you, Lieutenant Zadeh, but I'm not supposed to drink on guard duty."

"My lips are sealed, Corporal. One sip won't kill you."

Danticus never was one to defy orders, so he took a sip. The fiery warm liquid filled his mouth and spices danced along his tongue. He let it simmer for a second before he swallowed, and felt as if his throat had caught fire. "Gods above," Danticus sputtered. "What is this?"

Darius chuckled. "Valdorian snake rum. It warms the body. It's far too cold up here for my liking. Valdorians are not known for their affinity towards the cold northern winds. There's a reason my lands are known as the Empires of the Sun."

Danticus didn't think it was chilly enough to warrant a drink of that snake rum, but who was he to disagree? Had the roles been reversed, and it was he in the scorching Valdorian deserts, he was sure he'd need his own remedies from his homeland. "Well, whatever helps you, sir."

Darius took the skin of rum back and helped himself to a deeper sip than the one Danticus took. "I remember my time as a bowman. I left the Order of Archery as a freshly made Sergeant in favor of the Ranger's Creed. I remember guard duty was always the worst. How goes your watch?"

Danticus shrugged. "It's been quiet, as it has been since we came up here."

"When things are no longer quiet, you'll wish they were," said Darius.

"I'm sure I'll agree once the arrows start flying, sir."

Truth be told, Danticus had never seen armed conflict. He was green as grass, as they'd like to say, but most of the five Orders were, with the exception of the Ranger Order. Theirs was a tireless mission with no respite. Still, Jorden hadn't seen a war since the Oathbreakers Conquests, the failed campaigns into Farrenhelm that saw the Oathbreaker suffer a humiliating defeat at hands of the Thanes of the Twelve. It was soon after the Treaty of Silver and Ice was made that Joras Freemane returned to reclaim his throne. The story goes that Frederic Stormwell was one of the guardsmen that helped smuggle the young Joras Freemane into the city alongside Gallador Thornshield, his oldest friend, and some five hundred sworn swords and shields. It was the day King Joras took back his throne, and the day both Gallador and Frederic were made rangers.

But the days of conquest and war were far behind them. Danticus only knew a kingdom at peace as a man in the Order of Archery.

"Has your cousin departed?" asked Darius.

"He has, sir," answered Danticus.

"When?"

"Roughly an hour or so ago, give or take a few minutes."

"How many men went with him?"

Danticus took a second to complete some mental calculations. "One other ranger and roughly a dozen cavalrymen."

Darius nodded contently. "Good. You were paying attention. If only the Order of Archery had more men like you, Corporal Stormwell. I'm sure we'd all sleep a little more soundly."

Sleep was in scarce commodity since they arrived north. The Lord Generals were convinced the Oathbreaker would strike in the middle of the night under the cover of darkness, as serpents were prone to do. He had heard from Cristomir that Gallador disagreed with their sentiment. "The Oathbreaker is too bold for such cowardice. The man challenged a King to combat in his own throne room, such was the grandeur of his own hubris. I'm sure the passage of time has only watered the seeds of his appalling ambition." Danticus hoped he was right. A nighttime raid would surely eat into his precious few hours of sleep.

"I appreciate your kind words, sir, but more of me would surely drive my cousin insane. He can hardly handle one of me as it is."

Darius smiled. "You Stormwell are boys bred from wild blood, I've heard. The same was said of your father."

There he was again. A shadow on the wall, a memory in the air, a fog in the morning. "So I've been told."

"I've only heard good things about the man. The same can't be said of that cousin of yours," Darius said with a jest, "but perhaps the son might bear sweeter fruit."

Danticus furrowed his brow. "What do you mean, sir?"

Darius laid his palms against the wooden beam that separated them from a near sixty foot drop, and cast his gaze out to the wild horizon. "Cristomir says you wish to be a ranger, like your father before you, yes?"

Danticus sucked his teeth. He always did that when he was nervous or excited. "Yes sir, I do."

Darius nodded. "Well, that's good then. The fifth regiment is in need of more archery companies, and to lead these companies, we need good bowmen dressed in red."

"Sir? Are you saying-"

Darius held up a hand. "I'm not saying anything, Corporal, other than to make the most of your time out here. There are a lot of eyes pointed to the north of Jorden. Word of the King's campaign has reached many ears in the Four Kingdoms. The world is watching for what happens here. If ever there was a time to prove yourself worthy of the mantle, now is it. Even if it is just guard duty. Do you understand what I'm saying, Corporal Stormwell?"

Danticus nodded dutifully. "I understand sir."

And he truly did.